Pilgrim Soul
by Dannell Lites
Summary: The way the Preacher comic SHOULD have ended!


SPIFFY DISCLAIMER THINGIE!  
  
Ah don't own Jesse Custer, the Saint of Killers, Cassidy, Tulip, God or Genesis nor any of that   
crowd! (Thank the Maker!) DC/Vertigo Comics does! Prolly Garth Ennis has a hand in it, too:):)   
No money is being made (consarn it!) and no infringement of copy right is intended. If'n ya'll sue moi   
Jesse will be right *peeved* ... And ya'll do *not* want that to happen. He's likely to use The   
Word on ya'll and then ya'll will have to do what he says ... And did Ah forget to say that Jesse is a   
mean cuss? Not to mention *imaginative*? He left one poor sod counting every last grain of sand   
on a beach and when he told Arseface's Daddy to "go fuck yourself" ... he did ... Otherwise Jesse is   
just a good ol' southern Texas preacher boy :):)  
  
As for continuity ... *sigh* Along with most of the rest of moi's stories it doesn't exist heah:):) Ah   
began this fic some time ago and Ah am sure by the time Ah am done with it, it will be passe in terms   
of what will happen in the actual comic! THIS is moi's idea of what *should* happen! Just think of   
it as an AU and ya'll will be a lot happier:):) Hee!  
  
Let moi state for the record right heah that Ah have not read the last six or so issues of "Preacher".   
Nor will Ah read them or any others issues until the story is all complete. Other than the title of this   
last story arc -- "Alamo" -- Ah have no knowledge of what is transpiring in the books. For this fic   
Ah have simply taken speculation on moi's part and the part of some other Preacher fans and given   
them voice.  
  
This story is rated R for VERY foul language, gruesome violence, and most especially what are   
probably some REALLY, REALLY, offensive semi religious themes! If'n ya'll are easily offended   
by anything like that then ... skedaddle! Vamoose! Ah mean it! Ya'll *have* been warned! Ah'm   
going straight to Hell for this one:):) But then, Ah'm not too worried. All moi's friends will be there   
... not to mention Garth Ennis right along beside moi:):) Howdy Garth, Sugah:):)  
  
  
  
  
Pilgrim Soul  
By: Dannell Lites  
  
How many loved your moment of glad grace?  
And loved your beauty with love false or true;  
But one man loved the pilgrim soul in you.  
"When You Are Old"  
William Butler Yeats  
  
"If there is a God, then He is a malign thug."  
Samuel Langhorn Clemens (AKA Mark Twain)  
  
In the Southern part of Texas,  
near the town of San Antone,  
stands a fortress all in ruins that  
the weeds have overgrown.  
You may look in vain for crosses  
and you'll never see a one.  
But sometimes between the setting  
and the rising of the sun,  
you can hear a ghostly bugle  
as the men go marching by.  
You can hear 'em as they answer  
to that roll call in the sky:  
Colonel Travis, Davy Crockett   
and a hundred eighty more.  
Captain Dickenson, Jim Bowie,   
present and accounted for.  
  
excerpted from the song: "Ballad of the Alamo"   
By Paul Francis Webster  
  
  
  
  
  
"You got something to say, Pilgrim?" demanded the ghost of John Wayne. "Spit it out."  
  
"Naw," said Jesse Custer.  
  
"You ain't much of a liar, son," returned The Duke.   
  
Jesse stiff armed the shot of whiskey in his hand and rested his boot heels on his untidy desk. Being   
Sheriff of Salvation, Texas had some advantages, after all. Not many. But wasn't nobody gonna yell   
at him for putting his feet up on his own desk, by God. Considering what was about to happen, he   
almost laughed at that last.   
  
"Naw," replied Jesse, "never was much of a one for prevarication. Never any damned good at it.   
Not like you and that's a fact ... *Pilgrim*."   
  
The ghost of John Wayne eased his Stetson back on his head with a finger and lit a cigarette. Jesse   
joined him after a moment, blowing smoke rings that wafted through the stale air of the tiny Sheriff's   
office.  
  
"Those things'll kill ya," Jesse grinned.   
  
Wayne grinned back. "They did, son, they did."   
  
Jesse snorted.  
  
"Best get that burr out from under your saddle right now, son. 'Fore it festers," Jesse's life-long   
companion advised.   
  
Jesse had to grin at that. "'Son' ..." he reflected, "now that's fucking funny, ain't it? Especially after it   
come to me that you're not, never have been, my Daddy. Been talking to you most of my life and I   
just now figured out who the hell you are. But, then, I guess most of us are your 'Children', right,   
'Father'? Or so I used to preach of a Sunday."   
  
Jesse burst into good natured laughter. Oh, this was just toooo goddamn funny. "Shit!" he thought,   
"did it again!"   
  
He could almost hear Cassidy's mellow Irish tones. "Now wouldn't that make yeh laugh yeh wankin'   
bollicks off all the way to Hell and back?" .  
  
"Never claimed to be your Daddy," John Wayne replied, defensively. Jesse's grin broadened. "Got   
the son of a bitch on the run!" came his exultant thought. Jesse poured himself another shot of Wild   
Turkey in celebration.  
  
"Naw," Jesse admitted, chugging his drink. Damn he hated the taste of whiskey. Shit was only good   
for one thing. "Can't recollect that you have. Slick. Real slick. Slicker'n a minnow swimmin' in a   
dipper." He saluted the ghost with his once again full glass. But the ghost of John Wayne was gone   
when he looked up again.  
  
"Jaysis, Jess, yeh've got to get a better hobby, old son."   
  
Jesse blinked. For a moment he imagined that he was hearing things; an alcohol induced   
hallucination.. Sure wouldn't be the first one. Not by a long damn shot. But when Cassidy slumped   
bonelessly into the chair in front of his desk Jesse decide he was real. Jesse also decided he was   
pissed as hell.  
  
"What the fuck are *you* doing here?" he demanded of the Irish vampire. Cassidy lowered his   
head.  
  
"Jess ... I'm sorry, I'm sorry, I'm sorry," he blurted in a rush. "Yeh don't know how sorry! I'm a   
wanker! I'm the biggest wanker in the entire world! I - I can explain."(1)  
  
Jesse's eye narrowed.  
  
"Explain *what*, Cass? Why you made a pass at my gal Tulip the minute my back was turned? Or   
maybe why you fucked her and sent her straight to hell? Love to hear it." Slowly, Jesse took out   
the Magnum handgun in his desk drawer and laid it on top of the desk in plain sight between the two   
of them, a silent threat. Cassidy's head sank lower still.  
  
"Put the fookin' gun away, Jess," he said quietly. "Won't do yeh any bollickin' good and yeh know   
that."  
  
"Maybe so ... maybe no," agreed a reluctant Jesse. He set his teeth. "But remember Frankie the   
Eunuch? Remember Masada? That Lee Enfield rifle of his? 'CLACK CLICK,' says Frankie the   
Eunuch. 'Hear that? That's the fuckin' sounda history ... CLACK CLICK' ... You told me all   
about it when you could talk again. Frankie shot you into little bloody pieces, Cass. Buncha times.   
And you cussin' and shoutin' in the biggest single act of profanity since God got his dick caught in a   
zipper." Jesse would have thought that it was impossible for Cassidy to pale any further. But it   
wasn't.  
  
"And who was it hauled your sorry ass outta the line of fire, Cass? That was *me*, you son of a   
bitch. Me. I went in there after you. Star and Frankie're both crazier'n a soup sandwich. I coulda   
been killed. But I did it. Because I trusted you. Thought you were my friend. That kinda stuff   
means a lot to me. Don't mean fuck-all to you, though, does it? Not jack." Jesse leaned closer until   
he was inches from Cassidy's face. Cassidy looked away.  
  
"And Cass?"   
  
Slowly, like a moth drawn to a flame, Cassidy faced his friend. Jesse's one remaining earth brown   
eye hardened like stone. "Don't *ever* think I can't hurt you." For a moment his eye seemed to   
glow a bright red and his voice deepened, roughened ever so slightly.  
  
"Why, you'd do anything for me, wouldn't you, Cass? Anything I said."  
  
Smiling, Cassidy nodded eagerly. "Anything, Jess!" he proclaimed. Grinning right back, Jesse let   
The Word fade. After a moment Cassidy's lips curled back over his teeth in anger.  
  
"Jess," he snarled, "that was a fookin' shitty thing to do, now wasn't it?"   
passed Cassidy the bottle of Wild Turkey in wordless expiation. After a few seconds he   
sighed heavily, watching Cassidy help himself to the proffered liquor. Jesse Custer was careful to   
keep his face from crumpling like wet, tear-stained paper, but he couldn't keep the hurt and   
bewilderment out of his voice. No matter how hard he tried.  
  
"Why, Cass?" he mourned and even in his own ears his voice sounded lost and forlorn. Damn, he   
hated that. "Why? Just tell me *why*." Cassidy studied his scuffed, used boots for long moments   
and sat absolutely still in his uncomfortable chair. Still as a rock. Expect for his fingers resting in his   
lap that writhed and twisted like alien things beyond his control, tearing at the fabric of his faded   
jeans and leaving many new, small holes in their busy wake.  
  
"I - I *break* things ... " he said in a voice that ached with despair and confusion. "Never mean to   
do it, but ... can't seem to stop it ... Buggered is what I am."   
  
Jesse shook his head sadly. "Did you ever try to stop it, Cass?" he asked. "Ever really try?"   
  
Cassidy passed the bottle of whiskey back to Jesse's waiting hands and said nothing. Which, sure   
enough answers the damned question, Jesse thought, grieving. He remembered telling Tulip that   
Cassidy was kinda like if Brendan Behan fucked Bram Stoker and they let the baby do crack all the   
time. To Cassidy's complete mystification, Jesse smiled at the memory. Lot of things like that about   
Cassidy. Lots of smiles and good memories. Then he lost his smile.  
  
Looks like Tulip was closer to the mark, though, he admitted.  
  
So, why do I keep seeing a lost little boy when I look at him? she'd asked once.  
  
"Jess," pleaded Cassidy, "I'll do anything to make it right. Anything, I swear to yeh. I - I - "  
  
The worst part of the whole mess was that Cassidy was sincere. "He's always sincere," Jesse   
thought sadly. "Always sorry he did it. Don't stop him though."  
  
"What can I do?" Cassidy cried. "What do yeh want from me, Jess?"  
  
Jesse stared into the bottle of whiskey he held as if it might supply him with an answer. Any answer   
at all. Shit. Silent as always. If nothing else, Annville should have taught him that there were no   
answers there at the bottom of a whisky bottle. Only a nice, safe and comfortable hiding place.   
Sweet oblivion. He turned to face the Irishman once more.  
  
"What do I want, Cass?" he asked softly. "What I *want*, Cass, is once, just *once* to see you   
suffer. Like Tulip suffered." Cassidy slumped down even further in his chair and looked away   
sharply.  
  
"Yeh're about a hundred years too late on that one, old son," he whispered. Jesse passed the bottle   
once more back to Cassidy.  
  
"How do you figure, Cass?" he asked. "Just what the hell are you lookin' for, anyways?" Cassidy   
snatched the liquor and took a deep pull on it. "And how the fook would I be knowing that, I ask   
yeh? If I knew do yeh think I'd still be searchin' yeh eejit? I - I - don't *know* what I'm after ... "   
Cassidy's voice trailed off, leaving much unsaid. Jesse waited.  
  
"No," the Irishman said clearly after a moment. "That's a fookin' lie and I know that." Cassidy   
studied his hands for long moments. Then he looked up and Jesse was sure if he hadn't been   
wearing those damned sunglasses, he'd have been staring straight into the Texan's eye.  
  
"I want ... " he began and then faltered. For a moment Jesse was afraid that he'd fall into sullen   
silence. But he didn't. "I want what *you* have," he finished in a stronger voice. Jesse's jaw set   
itself like rock.  
  
"Tulip?" he demanded.  
  
Cassidy seemed to explode in anger. "No, yeh wankin' sod!" he shouted. "If I was only after a   
piece of arse, yeh think I couldn't find a safer one? Bleedin' Christ, if I couldn't! No!" He seemed   
to shrink into the chair again, burying his hands in his armpits, perhaps to still their shaking. "I want   
someone to feel about me the way she feels about you. Bollicked everything up, I did."  
  
Jesse drew a deep breath and studied Cassidy. Lost right enough. And it was hard to think of a   
man born with the century as a boy .. but it sure did fit, didn't it? Like a damned Trojan rubber,   
Jesse acknowledged. Quickly, Jesse killed the bottle of Wild Turkey, replaced the Magnum in his   
desk drawer, and cracked another bottle of liquor.  
  
"Never did tell me why you came here, Cass," he reminded the Irishman, gently. "Why'd you do   
that?"  
  
"I'm a fookin' eejit, is why!" Cassidy cursed.  
  
"Well, yeah," Jesse smiled, "but other than that?"  
  
Cassidy smiled back. "I don't ... " Cassidy stammered. "That is to say .. I mean ... "   
  
Jesse watched as Cassidy slammed the bottle down on the rickety desk so hard that he was sure   
either the desk itself or perhaps the bottle were in severe danger of disintegrating from the force of   
the blow. It was easy to forget how damned *strong* Cassidy was. After all, Cassidy himself   
forgot that all the time. Much *too* often.  
  
"Curse yeh, Jesse Custer," Cassidy swore, "it's all yeh're fault. Never was burdened by a   
conscience before yeh came into me life!" The Irishman quieted after a moment. "It's - it's all   
comin' to an end soon, isn't it?" he said softly. It wasn't a question. He looked down at his hands   
with all their great strength and still his fear and helplessness shone on his face. "I promised yeh I'd   
see this thing through, Jess. That I'd stand by yeh. I - I can't leave yeh alone. Not and live with   
meself." The vampire made a face and ran unsteady fingers through his sandy brown hair. "Or   
whatever the hell it is I'm doing, now."   
  
"So you came back for me?" Jesse asked, smiling once more. "Cause it was the right thing to do?"   
  
"Bollicks the 'right thing to do'!" Cassidy sneered. "Wouldn't know the 'right thing to do' from an   
arsehole! I - I - " Jesse looked at him, hard.  
  
"Yeah," said Cassidy in a small voice. "And why else would I be doing something this foolish, would   
yeh tell me? Don't believe in God. Never did. And neither do you."   
  
Jesse frowned. "What makes you say that, Cass?" Jesse asked mildly. "The hell I don't believe in   
God. I've meet the son of a bitch face to face. Him and that pack of goat rapists call themselves   
Angels. The spirit that gave me this power of The Word, that Genesis thing, was the offspring of   
miscegenation 'tween an Angel and a Demon. It knew all about God. And since Genesis is a part of   
me now, so do I. That's how I know God packed up and left Heaven soon as he knew about   
Genesis. And we all been suffering for it ever since. But ... not ... not much longer now, I figure.   
Think I fucked up pretty bad just before you got here, Cass." Jesse's sorrowful look twisted   
Cassidy's stomach into a hard knot.  
  
"How yeh figure that?" he wanted to know. Jesse smashed a half smoked Marlboro cigarette out in   
the overflowing ashtray on his desk, then lit another almost immediately. The Texan inhaled deeply.  
  
"Told the bastard I was on to him. That I had it figured out. Who he was. I know where to find   
him, now. He ain't gonna sit still for that; not for long." Jesse shook his head and bit his lip. "I ought   
not to drink, Cass. Liquor makes a man do stupid things. Ought to have remembered that from   
back in Annville. Fucked up real bad. In fact - "  
  
In the blink of an eye, the two men found themselves sitting down on the ground hard enough to jar   
their spines, no longer supported by chairs. The chill night air smote them like a blow and the stars   
twinkled down on them from a vast uncovered night sky overhead.  
  
"I don't think we're in Kansas anymore, Toto," whispered Jesse.  
  
"Bugger the fookin' dog!" Cassidy cried, pulling himself agilely to his feet. "What the hell was   
*that*?" he demanded.   
  
"That was God," said Jesse. "Told you I fucked up. I think it's time. He's done running now he   
knows he can't hide any more. 'Spect he'll be along in a while."   
  
Beneath his breath Cassidy cursed. "Where the hell are we? What is this place?"  
  
Ignoring him, Jesse looked around for a second or two and then burst out laughing; and laughing and   
laughing as he took in their surroundings with a shock of recognition. He couldn't seem to stop   
laughing. Unceremoniously, he fell back onto his backside and laughed so hard tears leaked from his   
one good eye. Jesus Christ, the irony, the irony ...  
  
"Yeh mind letting me in on the joke here?" Cassidy said, impatiently.   
  
Jesse scrambled to his feet still chuckling dark mirth. He threw his hands up and waved them at the   
sky. "All right, you son of a bitch!" he called. "This is as good a place as any, I guess. Better'n   
most. You got style and that's a fact!" He turned to Cassidy.  
  
"You really don't know this place do you?" he said. Cassidy's only reply was a growl. Smiling like a   
sunny Summer day, Jesse Custer pointed to a sign brilliantly lit by a bright spotlight. Cassidy   
frowned for a moment in confusion and then his jaw dropped and he gasped as he recognized the   
name emblazoned there. Jesse nodded, still smiling.  
  
"Welcome to the Alamo," said Jesse.  
  
  
**************************************************************************************  
  
  
OR DISCLAIMERS!  
  
  
  
"Take off that damned hat, Cas," Jesse instructed in a fierce voice. "This is a goddamned Holy   
place." Jesse glared at Cassidy. "Fucking Shrine of Liberty," Jess swore. "Didn't you read the sign   
over the entrance, for God's sake? And on top of that it's a fucking consecrated church." He glared   
at Cassidy once more. "Take off the hat, Cass. Now."  
  
With a quick hand Cassidy swept the cap from off his disheveled head.  
  
Climbing the worn adobe steps to the top of the entrance wall, Jesse made himself comfortable and   
lit a cigarette just as Cassidy seated himself at his side without a word. Jesse stared at his father's   
Zippo lighter for a moment, engraved with the blazon of the First Marine Division, feeling the warm   
metal soothe his chill hands.   
  
"Hey, Daddy," he whispered, "you watching? Hope so."  
  
"I need a fookin' drink," declared Cassidy. "I don't suppose ... ?"  
  
From the corner of his eye, Jesse watched the bright moonlight glint off something smooth and   
grinned. With one hand he reached and carefully extracted the full, unbreached bottle of Jack   
Daniel's Black Label from its rocky hiding place behind an unnoticed crevice.   
  
"Here you go," he said and passed the bottle to Cassidy. Joyously, the Irishman snatched the liquor   
from his friend's hand.  
  
"There *is* a God!" Cassidy cried.   
  
Jesse smirked. "Told you," he chuckled.  
  
"I was joking, yeh daft cracker!"  
  
"I wasn't," the former preacher said.  
  
Neither of them were ever certain how long they sat there in companionable silence, drinking and   
smoking, not a single word passing between them. Jesse thought that it was probably a long time.   
Not that it mattered a damn. Not now. Still, he told himself, it was nice to spend time with a good   
friend. He was strangely content. Time passed and the night was chill and the sky was beautiful. It   
was Cassidy who finally broke the silence, of course.  
  
"Jess, this is crazy." Cassidy sighed. "But yeh know that, I'm guessin' ... "  
  
"Yup," said Jesse Custer. He passed the bottle of Jack Daniel's back to his friend with a steady   
hand. Fastidiously, Cassidy wiped the rim on his grimy sleeve before taking a long pull at the liquor.   
He smacked his thin lips in contentment.  
  
"At least we've got some decent booze this time."   
  
"Yup," said Jesse. Cassidy passed the bottle back to his friend.  
  
"Jess, yeh're bein' an arsehole." Jesse's smile broadened and he leaned against the adobe of the wall   
at his back.  
  
"Yup," he replied with relish and took his own drag on the rapidly emptying bottle.  
  
"Yeh're drunk, too," Cassidy observed.  
  
"Yu - " Cassidy's frowning snarl quelled his mellow playfulness.   
  
Jesse nodded, sagely. "It's been known," he agreed.   
  
Cassidy shook his head in mystification. "I mean, *look* at this Jess ... Here we are hidin' snug in   
the middle o' one of yeh're national monuments, freezin' our bleedin' bollicks off, gettin' drunker'n a   
couple of mud platties swimming downstream of a Guinness brewery ... waitin' for Godot - er - that   
is to say *God* - to show up and blow our arses into the Hereafter ... " Cassidy took another swig   
to steady his nerves and grunted.  
  
"'Bout says it, " Jesse agreed.  
  
"I'm not supposin' yeh've anything like a plan here, right?" Cassidy inquired without much hope.  
  
"Oh, got me a Plan, all right. Right as rain," Jesse smiled. Reaching into his back jeans pocket he   
brought forth a small, white object that gleamed in the starlight for the other man's inspection.  
  
"Know what this is?"  
  
"The main sprocket off a ten gear wanking machine?" Cassidy guessed.  
  
"It's a bone, Cass. A damned bone. A right special bone. Dug it up in a town name of Ratwater,   
Texas."   
  
Jesse reached up and loosened the tight hold of the clerical collar around his neck. Damned thing   
was choking him. As always. Hated the son of a bitching thing since first I put it on, kicking and   
screaming in Annville, he thought. Seems like forever ago, now. But, I'll be wearing it 'til this is   
done. Only right, somehow. He reached up and adjusted the eye patch covering his left eye,   
reflexively. Lord, he said silently, we're fixin' to find out which one of us sees clearest. He stroked   
the tiny bone in his hand.  
  
"It's a finger bone, my friend," he continued conversationally.   
  
Cassidy grimaced. "Jaysis, Jess! What would yeh be wantin' with a thing like that?"  
  
"Them Angels ... the ones in that Vegas casino told me what to do." He held up the bone again for   
Cassidy to see. "Surest way to call the Saint of Killers, they said, is to disturb his bones. And *this*   
- " Jesse twirled the bone in admiration, "is the middle joint off his trigger finger. Gonna have us   
some firepower soon, Cass. See if we don't."   
  
Cassidy gagged on his booze. "Bleedin' Christ!" the Irishman cried. "Jess, he'll blast yeh're guts all   
over the fookin' walls! Kill yeh without a second thought." His hand shook as he pointed at the   
bone still in Jesse's hand. "Get rid o' that thing!" He looked about in fear. "We've got to get outta   
here, mate." He reached for Jesse's hand but the Texan shrugged him off.  
  
"Can't do it, Cass," Jesse said almost sorrowfully. "Gotta see this thing to the end."   
  
He could almost hear his mother's voice, then. "Just like your father," she said with deep fear and   
affection. "Livin' a damned western."  
  
Jesse grinned at Cassidy. "Maybe he'll gun me ... maybe he won't. Gonna give him a better target.   
What with his family dying like they did and all, the son of a bitch is almost as pissed at God as I   
am. 'No wound given by his guns will be anything but fatal ... '" Cassidy stared. If Jesse noticed the   
slowly spreading stain at the crotch of Cassidy's torn and battered jeans he did not mention it.  
  
"Yeh don't think small, do yeh?" he asked weakly.  
  
"Can't," Jesse replied. "Not when you're calling the Almighty to account for abandoning Heaven and   
leaving us all in this fucking mess. And somebody's got to do it. Might as well be me." For long still   
moments, Jesse Custer stared out over the vista laid before him from the walls of the Alamo.   
"'Sides," he pointed out with a wistful smile, "wouldn't be the first time these walls bled." He inhaled   
deeply, savoring the crisp cold air as if it were different here in this place; as if it were sweeter, more   
invigorating. He closed his eyes.  
  
"Smell that?" he asked the confused, frowning Cassidy. "That's the smell of freedom. Blood and   
freedom. They smell an awful lot alike. Can't mostly have one without the other. Pretty soon we're   
all gonna be free ... one way or the other."   
  
Cassidy hung his head and let the memories come.  
  
Dublin. Easter weekend, 1916. Thousands of Irish folk of all descriptions took to the streets,   
brandishing work implements, knives, anything they could find, clamoring for freedom, men, women,   
children. Including a passionate young man named Proinsais Cassidy. But the British had guns, of   
course. Lots of guns. Most of the Irish dissidents died. Including a passionate young man named   
Proinsais Cassidy.   
  
"Stupid wanking sod," thought Cassidy through grinding, clenched teeth.  
  
"Look at that sky." Jesse pointed up at the full moon shining bright above them. "See that? Down   
Texas way we still call that a 'Comanche Moon' 'cause it gives enough light to see and raid by.   
Nothing quite like a night sky in Texas." He patted the abobe wall he sat upon, then straightened   
and stood up, almost empty bottle of JD still dangling from his clutching hands.  
  
"Right here. Mision San Antonio de Valero. The Alamo. Not too much later than this is when the   
final assault started. In the early morning hours. Sixth of March, 1836." Jesse gestured to the north   
taking in the modern day Alamo Plaza and beyond. A few early, early morning drivers sped by on   
their busy way, engines humming forlornly in the lifting darkness.  
  
"Antonio Lopez de Santa Ana marched five thousand Mexican soldiers down from the north over   
there. Had the damned place all but surrounded. The band struck up a tune called "De Guello".   
Speak Spanish, Cass?" The Irishman shook his head wordlessly. "Means 'The Rooster', 'cause   
that's where it comes from; cockfights, 'cause of the way game birds fight; to the death. Means 'no   
quarter asked or given' ... means 'I'm coming for your ass' ... "   
  
Under his breath Jesse Custer began to hum and Cassidy listened for several moments. The tune   
was eerie and sibilant, in a high minor key that grated on the nerves. The shiver that ran down   
Cassidy's spine had little to do with the cold of the early morning air. Jesse pointed across Houston   
Street.  
  
"Right over there," Jesse continued, "inside the San Antonio Federal Building, now, is where William   
Barrett Travis, the head honcho, bought the farm. Back in 18 and 36 that was the north wall. And   
when the Mexican Army came swarming over that wall like locusts on a wheat field, Travis was   
there. His slave Joe was with him and since Joe was one of the few survivors we know for damned   
sure what happened to Travis. Santa Ana thought it was damned fucking magnanimous of himself to   
spare a black slave. Symbolic as hell." Jesse turned for a moment to the inner courtyard and   
pointed again.  
  
"In the Long Barracks, there, is where it's almost sure'r'n shit Jim Bowie died. Bayoneted in his   
sickbed in his own room after the Mexicans overran the yard. Some kinda fever laid him up. He   
was a sick and dying man when he got here ... and he sure didn't get any better, did he?" Cassidy   
looked away.  
  
"Nobody's real certain what the fuck happened to Davy Crockett," Jesse mourned, gesturing to the   
west. "The Alcalde of San Antonio swears he saw him over by the west wall there." Once more   
the former minister and Texan faced the Alamo's inner courtyard. "After Captain Dickenson's wife   
Susanna was spared and escorted from the battlefield, she swore that she saw him over by the   
church yonder. Rumors sprang up almost before the fucking dust settled that Ol' Davy was one of a   
select group of defenders captured and ordered executed by Santa Ana himself. Me, I don't believe   
it. Just the Mexicans talkin' big. They wouldn'ta known Crockett from Adam. Just tryin' to scare   
people. That's what the Alamo was all about in the first damned place. Bein' brutal and tryin' to get   
Texians (2) to haul ass." Jesse grunted. "Didn't work for shit." Cassidy grabbed the bottle from   
Jesse's hands and swallowed deeply.  
  
"Where the fook did yeh learn all this shite, Jess?" he demanded in a strained voice.  
  
"Hell, Cass, every school child ever born in the state of Texas knows all about this place." Jesse   
nodded to himself and ground his Marlboro out beneath his heel. For an instant he stroked the   
abobe wall like a lover. "This is the Alamo, Cass ... there's sure as hell worse places to die ... "   
Jesse smiled and lay his hand lightly on Cassidy's shoulder.  
  
"And worse people to do it with," he said softly.   
  
Cassidy gathered him in for a startling embrace that was so tight, so needy, that it almost drove the   
Texan's breath from his lungs.  
  
"Fookin' hell, Jess," Cassidy whispered, mourning something that had never been a part of his world   
before he meet the Reverend Jesse Custer. "What's it all *mean*?" he wondered. "What was it all   
*for*?"  
  
"This?" Jesse's gesture encompassed the whole of the Alamo monument and perhaps beyond.   
"Don't mean shit, Cass. And it was mostly for nothing. That bastard Sam Houston knew *exactly*   
what he was doing: sacrificing the defenders of the Alamo. It was supposed to buy time for   
Houston to gather more troops and dicker with the US government for help. But that didn't   
happen. But ... to the hundred eighty nine men from over twenty fuckin' countries who died here, it   
meant a hell of a lot. It meant freedom." Cassidy sniffed and wiped his nose on his sleeve. He lifted   
the JD bottle in a salute, almost draining it.  
  
"Up the Republic, me old son!" he cried. "And six fookin' choruses of 'The Rising of the Moon' in   
yeh're face."  
  
Jesse smiled at Cassidy and settled in to wait. As it happened he didn't have to wait long.  
  
He came striding in out of the night, walking right through the front gate. Just an ageless man in dusty   
gray clothes, battered hat shadowing his colorless eyes. But the crows feet at their corners were   
plain enough to see. Those and the twin pistols tied down low on his hips. Lank gray hair spilled   
from beneath the brim of his hat and the long black duster he wore flowed behind him, snapping in a   
breeze that only he could feel. Silently he climbed the steps and stood tall at the top.  
  
"Been wondering when you'd show your ugly face," Jesse grunted, scratching his stubbled cheek.  
  
"Preacher," said the Saint of Killers in a deep, chill voice like Winter wind blowing through a   
deserted, neglected graveyard, "you'd best be sayin' your prayers to God and Sonny Jesus, 'cause   
I'm here to kill you sure as Hell." Before he could stop himself Cassidy leapt up.  
  
"Wait! Wait!" the Irishman cried. "Can't we talk about this? I mean ... " The Saint glanced at   
Cassidy, looking him over with hard contempt. His hand rested easily near the twin Walker Colts   
riding his hips, caressing them lovingly.  
  
"Never could abide a coward," he said slowly. "You're next, I reckon, mick."  
  
"Here now!" began Cassidy hotly. "No need for that! Yeh bigot wanker!"  
  
"Cass!" Jesse hissed, "You're *not* helping here!"   
  
Cassidy fell numbly back to his seat on the hard abobe and took a long pull on the bottle of JD.   
Stunned, he stared up at Jesse after a moment.  
  
"Did I just say that? Jess, *tell* me I didn't say what I think I did." Turning to the Saint of Killers he   
gulped once, smiled wanly, and offered the whiskey bottle with an unsteady hand.  
  
"Drink?" he inquired hopefully. "Have a drink on us?"   
  
The Saint ignored him and Cassidy breathed a sigh of vast relief. Jesse, however, was a different   
story. When the Saint turned once again to him he meet that cold, flat gaze as levelly as he could.   
The frown that graced the Saint's features was deep and abiding, rolling across his hash, craggy face   
like thunder.  
  
"What are you and this fool doin' here, Preacher?" Not waiting for an answer, he pointed to the   
bone still clutched in Jesse hand.  
  
"I've killed better men than you for less'n that," he said. "Any reason now should be any different?"   
Jesse Custer took a deep, thoughtful drag on his cigarette and studied the Saint of Killers for an   
endless moment. Then he smiled.  
  
"Just how damned mad at the Almighty *are* you?" he asked. "Ready to do something about it?"   
For many moments the only sound that broke the silence was Cassidy, swallowing more JD in a   
great hurry. The Saint's eyes narrowed and he leaned almost imperceptibly closer to Jesse who   
stood his ground.  
  
"Keep talkin', Preacher," he said.  
  
  
**************************************************************************************  
  
  
"Well bugger me sideways," exclaimed Cassidy, "it's the bleedin' cavalry!"  
  
Jesse shot him a forceful look and the Irishman subsided with sudden mirth, then just as quickly lost   
his spreading grin, his tense face reflecting his blossoming concern. The figure on the large roan   
horse drew closer, then halted and dismounted, spurs jingling merrily at his approach..  
  
"Is that .. ?" Cassidy began and when Jesse nodded curtly, fell silent.  
  
"Howdy, pardner," said John Wayne.  
  
"Cut the crap," snapped Jesse. "Got no time for that, now." He gritted his teeth. "And take off that   
damned coon skin cap! Crockett hadn't worn buckskins or that cap for years by the time he died   
here. He was a fucking rich man and a former US Senator by then."  
  
"The movie says different," said The Duke.  
  
"Fornicate the movie!" hissed Jesse. "This ain't no damned movie!"   
  
The Duke smiled. "Glad you noticed," he said.  
  
Cassidy, despite his best efforts, could never quite recall all the details, later. He spent considerable   
time at the task, to his own astonishment. It wasn't in his nature to be so given to considering the   
past. He was a creature of the moment and had long since resigned himself to that fact. Still ...   
  
He saw:  
  
... Jesse Custer open his mouth, his eyes flashing with a tinge of red. He definitely recalled noticing   
not a single ounce of anger or malice in that sharp, brown gaze. What he saw there was something   
entirely different. But not unexpected.  
  
Compassion.  
  
And hope.  
  
Cassidy saw:  
  
... "John Wayne" smile and stand perfectly, absolutely still, waiting ... *knowing* ... what had to   
happen next.  
  
He heard:  
  
... Jesse say clearly to the Saint of Killers, "Shoot." He imagined he could even hear the soft slap of   
flesh on leather and the tiny muffled sound of metal against fine, oiled and supple leather as both   
Walker Colt's cleared the ancient gun man's holsters.  
  
And he definfitly heard the shattering, explosive voice of the cold metal as it spoke. No doubt about   
that in the least.  
  
Cassidy heard:  
  
... "John Wayne" say with loving approval, "Ya did good, son. Ya did good."  
  
He heard somebody scream. He was pretty sure it was him.  
  
He saw:  
  
Jesse Custer go flying back, as if caught in the teeth of a strong wind before he hit the ground hard   
and lay very still.  
  
After that ... things got really, really confusing as far as Cassidy was concerned. He was never sure   
of exactly *what* happened. At least not sure enough to talk about it. Not with anyone. There   
came a great burst of brilliant light and ... and ... *somnething* rose out of Jesse's bleeding, dying   
body and threw itself, shrieking with the strident voice of a thousand banshee's at the still, waiting   
form of "John Wayne". Who flung open his arms wide, smiling, to receive it like a lost child.  
  
And then the world flickered, began to dissolve around the edges like paint applied with too much   
enthusiasm dribbling down a wall, and faded to stark black.  
  
  
**************************************************************************************  
  
"J - Jess?"  
  
Cassidy thought that he was awake and conscious, but this definitely couldn't be real. No way. "A   
pint too many, old son," he told himself sadly, "and that's a fact." But still the vision persisted.  
  
"It's me all right, Cass," said Jesse Custer, lowering his booted heels from the questionable comfort   
of the top of his rickety desk. From the now open window the bright sunlight of Salvation, Texas   
spilled into the room, taking the chill off the early morning air and the stuffiness out of the small office.  
  
Cassidy stared. "What the fook - "  
  
Jesse shook his dark head. "Naw ... wasn't a dream, Cass. Wasn't any kind of a dream. If that's   
what you're thinking." Jesse reached for the bottle of Wild Turkey in his desk drawer before he   
realized that the two of them had already finished it off the night before. Damn. This wasn't gonna   
be easy without alcohol to lubricate the proceedings. Sure enough Cassidy almost snarled.  
  
"And would yeh be knowing what I'm thinking, now?" he demanded.  
  
Jesse tried to keep his shit eating grin to a reasonable size. He was almost certain he didn't succeed,   
though he *did* try. "Well, yeah, I would. I was just trying to be polite, Cass." He stripped the   
clerical collar from around his neck and stuffed it negligently into his pocket. Wouldn't be needing   
that damned thing anymore. For a moment he considered the irony of wearing a symbol of piety to   
himself and almost put it back on.  
  
"Yeh're dead!" Cassidy accused.  
  
Jesse decided to hell with it and beat back a sharp retort. He settled on shaking his head. "Naw.   
Still kickin'. Been AWOL for awhile, it's true. But, contrary to popular opinion, I ain't never been   
dead."  
  
"Double negative," muttered Cassidy, obviously at a loss for words and reluctant to admit it.  
  
"Damned straight," smiled Jesse and saluted the Irishman with a suddenly full glass of what smelled to   
Cassidy's keen nose like Jameson's. Several seconds passed before Cassidy noticed the equally full   
glass waiting for him, sitting patiently on the table. Quickly, he up ended the glass and swallowed   
hard. When he looked at Jesse again ...  
  
That was when Cassidy finally noticed the other man's eyes. No doubt about it. Eyes. As in plural.   
As in *two* of them. He saw Jesse nod, once. "If thine right eye offend thee," Jesse quoted with a   
smile, "pluck it out."  
  
"It was yeh're *left* eye, yeh daft Yank," whispered Cassidy.  
  
"Oh yeah," said Jesse. "Son of a bitch. Always did have trouble keeping that straight." Jesse   
smiled. "After all, I figure that if I take the damned eye in the first place ... I can give it back if I've a   
mind."  
  
Cassidy's glass replenished itself and he gulped down the fiery whiskey gratefully. "So yeh're sayin'   
yeh're not Jesse," Cassidy mourned in a small voice. "That yeh're ... " He guzzled more Jameson's.  
  
Jesse looked thoughtful for a moment or so. He leaned forward and squeezed Cassidy's cold hand.   
"Of course it's me, Cass. Jesse Custer. I haven't gone anywhere. I'm in here, too. We're all here:   
me and Genesis and ... well, you know ..."  
  
Wordless, Cassidy gulped down his seemingly endlessly replenishing glass of Bushmill's he thought it   
was this time. God's teeth, but wasn't this a turn? When he woke up this evening he was Cassidy ...   
a one hundred year old vampire trying to decide if he should face a man he'd grievously wronged.   
Now ...  
  
Well, he was *still* a vampire. Still about a hundred years old. But now he was a one hundred year   
old vampire whose best friend was The Almighty.  
  
Jaysis.  
  
Jesse nodded. "Speaking of eyes ... " he began.  
  
" Jaysis! Me *eyes*!" cried Cassidy, writhing in pain. "Me fookin' eyes!"   
  
As if felled by a stout blow, the Irishman slipped to his knees and his ever-present sunglasses rattled   
to the floor and lay there while he covered his eyes with his hands. Jesse picked the sunglasses up   
and tossed them causal like onto his desk.  
  
"Won't be needing those cheaters anymore, Cass," he said, helping the other man up to his feet.   
Gently, he pulled Cassidy's hands away from his eyes. They were green, he discovered. A deep,   
bright green. "All forty fuckin' shades of green," he thought. "Had to figure didn't it? Goddamn."  
  
"You got your eyes back, friend," he told Cassidy with a smile. "You just be damned sure you see   
as well with'm as you did without, hear me? Else I'll whup your sorry, blood sucking vampire ass   
from here to Kingdom Come, got it?"   
  
Cassidy stared at the other man for a moment, then smiled. "Got yeh," agreed Cassidy. He cleared   
his throat, speculatively. "So, where to now, mate? I mean, what with yeh bein' the Almighty now,   
and all ... "   
  
Jesse frowned. "Don't rightly know," he admitted. "Reckon I'll have to think on that. But one   
thing's for goddamn sure ... Gonna be some fuckin' changes around here, PDQ."  
  
Cassidy saluted him with an upraised glass. "May yeh be half an hour in Heaven 'fore the bleedin'   
Devil knows yeh're dead!" Grimacing, he swallowed the vile brew that passed for whiskey, the   
'Water of Life', in these barbaric parts.  
  
"Sweet Jaysis," he choked, "Jess, yeh've got to find a better class of whiskey now, than this   
bollicking dog piss. Jaysis."   
  
Jesse grinned evilly. "Ain't no Devil anymore, Cass," he informed his friend, gleefully. "The Saint   
capped the son of a bitch. Or did you forget? So Hell is in a hellavu fucking mess ... so to speak ...   
" He regarded Cassidy with a grin, mischief sparkling in his dark eyes. "Less'n you want the job ..."  
  
Cassidy choked, sputtered, and baptized the whole of Jesse desk with Wild Turkey. He blinked   
rapidly three times.  
  
"Yeh serious, are yeh?"  
  
"As a heart attack," agreed Jesse Custer.  
  
"Shite," whispered Cassidy.  
  
Cassidy still hadn't answered the question when the overhead lights in the small office dimmed,   
blinked, and then went out entirely. Cassidy laughed to hear Jesse swear so luridly. "Bit hard, that   
last, even for the Almighty ... " Cassidy snickered.  
  
"Quincannon's overloaded the power station again," Jesse theorized. "Christ."   
  
It was all Cassidy could do to keep from rolling on the floor in mirth. "Exactly!" he pointed out,   
smiling at Jesse.   
  
Who smiled back. Hmmm. What to do? Jesse wondered. And then, of course, the answer that   
sprang to his mind was simple. Well, why the hell not? Now was probably as good a time as any   
to get started on this God business. Small things first, he decided. He took a deep breath and   
plunged ahead, fearlessly.  
  
"Gimme some damn Light," said Jesse Custer.  
  
And there *was* Light ...  
  
  
The End!  
  
  
Author's Notes:  
  
(1) And ya'll are NOT mistaken!:):) There are some deliberate quotes in heah as an homage! Have   
fun finding them:):)  
  
(2) Nope! Not a typo! Before they were Texans, the residents of the Mexican province of   
Chihauhau-Texas were known as Texians:):)  
  
  
  
  
  



End file.
